I’ve ALWAYS had books. From my earliest memory. Both my parents are avid readers and instilled this love of books on to me and my brothers—though our tastes are all vastly different. But that’s okay because there are plenty of books to go around.

I got my first library card at six years old. My mom was pregnant with my brother and one of the neighbors would take me to library whenever they went. I was so proud of that card. It made me a big girl—and kept my mind off the fact that there was a little brat boy who was about to interrupt my world. (And I can still remember the smell, look and feel of the little library in Tyler, Texas back in the late 70s.)

In elementary school, I had the thrill of being free to check out any book I wanted. And I wanted them ALL. I would pick a section in the library and then pick a shelf and go from one end to the other. This was a trend I carried on into college and adulthood. It’s a weird way to read books, but I have discovered some of my favorite authors through my shelf-surfing—I tend to stick to Romance and Mysteries genres. But I read all across the board.

I try to read at least one book a week—that’s 52 books a year. I’ve had years where I only manage 35 and others when I get as many as 82 in. I know because I keep track on my personal Good Reads page. And I have a spreadsheet. (Yeah there’s weirdness for you—but I bought the same book THREE times and realized I needed a way to keep track.)

I have tried to carry over the reading bug to my kids. Of the four of them, one is as avid a reader as I am, the other three, meh, but I think they will be as the get older—and as my boys personalities are as different as can be, their reading tastes aren’t even in the same section of card catalog (yeah, yeah, I know, card catalogs are no more, but I liked the sound it). My boys are used to books, books are familiar to them. They live in a house with thousands (remember the spreadsheet, so I know the exact count) of books so the reading seeds have been sown.